The Chemical Defect
by Aliit Vodeson
Summary: The funeral's been held and John's moved out of 221B. Sherlock's dead and there's nothing more to say. But is he really dead? And why did he enjoy the challenge of faking his death so much?
1. The Yellow Letter

He had seen Sherlock Holmes exactly three times since the detective's death. The first had been when he was leaving Baker Street after visiting Mrs. Hudson.

"Found it under his bed, of all places." She handed him a cup of tea and patted his hand gently. "Only he would leave a note there. Only him..."Giving John a tight smile, she sat across from him at the kitchen table. "And it's for you, so I haven't touched it. Just brought it down, put it in a safe place. Called you, of course. God knows how he'd yell at me if I didn't give it to you."

He looked at the curve handwriting on the pale yellow envelope. For a man whose life had been otherwise extremely messy, Sherlock's handwriting was impeccably neat. There was no return address, no postage stamp in the corner to indicate he'd meant to mail the letter before...all that. John couldn't finish the thought. All that was still too fresh in his mind, too close for comfort, both in time and the flat above his head.

Harry had tried to get him to go to a relationship counselor. "It'll help you. You just need to realize he's gone and let your heart heal." She thought his trouble came from the lose of a romantic partner. "He was your boyfriend, John, but that doesn't mean it was your fault." Though she was trying to help, seeing another counselor wouldn't help him. They hadn't been romantic partners. Not that anyone believed him.

Without saying anything, he picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hands. Mrs. Hudson handed him a metal letter opener.

_**John, if you are reading this, then either I have been missing for a significant amount of time, or I am dead. No doubt you have moved out of the flat if it is the latter.**_ John, in spite of himself, fought back a laugh. _**Tell Mrs. Hudson, if she has not already, to donate the equipment to a school, and the books as well. I'm sure you can help her with finding a suitable fit for them.**_

_**I suppose this is my will, as I don't have an official one. You've most likely found that out already.**_ There had been no will filed, John knew that. _**But it is more than that. It is a letter to you, John. I once said I would be lost without you. That was a lie. I was lost without you. There was never anyone like you in my life. Mycroft was the closest person to me, and it was never more than a relationship of blood.**_

_**But my thoughts are getting away from me. Take care, dear Watson. Keep up the blog, if you can. Blog for me, John. For me**_

John felt a tear start to slowly roll down his cheek. He'd let the blog go untouched since the funeral. Writing about his now so ordinary life, after all they had done together, it was simply too much to handle.

_**P.S. Don't let her throw out the skull. He's a good person to talk to.**_

John laughed out loud this time. Mrs. Hudson started in her seat. "What is it? What did he say?"

John covered his mouth with his hand, remembering where he was and why he was there. "He says I should talk to the skull."

"Does he really?" Mrs. Hudson smiled as well. "Good thing I kept it then."

John's eyes returned to the bottom of the page. There was nothing more. "He didn't even sign it." He put the paper gently on the table.

"That's Sherlock for you. Writing from beyond the grave and can't even form a proper letter."

John looked around the kitchen, just for something to focus on that didn't remind him of Sherlock. He settled on the biscuit jar. "I think I see him, somethings. When I'm out walking, or in the tube, or hailing a cab. I see someone and for a moment, I think it's him." He cupped his hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth of the tea. "Just for a moment, and I think he's given me a miracle, that he's still alive, but then it's gone."

Mrs. Hudson sighed and drank some of her own tea. "I thought I saw him, at the funeral. Imagine that! Attending your own funeral and not popping up to let everyone know you're alive. And when the boards creak over head, I think maybe he's back."

"I wish he'd come back."

She patted his hand again. "So do I John. Of course, it must be harder for you. Sleeping on your own now, without him." John blanched and felt his cheeks turn red. Mrs. Hudson only smiles and keeps talking. "Can't even listen to the violin now. Used to love going to the concerts, you know, the cheaper ones down at the Academy." She pointed out the window, to the alley behind the flat block. "At least there's nothing strange turning up in my bins anymore. None of his experiments or burgers."

"No...of course not." John couldn't take the same enjoyment out of it that she did. He almost missed the body parts in the fridge. Would welcome them back if it meant getting Sherlock back.

"Molly calls, every so often. I think she just likes to talk, poor girl. We met at the funeral, you know. Didn't even knew she existed. Sherlock never talked about her. He broke her heart, being with you and all."

There seemed to be nothing more John could say. He said his goodbyes to his former land lady, put on his coat and placed the letter in his pocket. He thought he saw, as he took the steps down from the flat door, a tall thin man in a long overcoat watching from across the street. He looked a second time, searching the way they'd taught him in training, for the tiny little details that mattered so much. Then a lorry moved in front of him, between John and the figure that might have been Sherlock, and John lost him.


	2. Crazied Crack Shot

The second time he saw Sherlock was when he threw him out of the flat.

"Get out!"

"John, please. I can explain." Sherlock almost, almost looked sorry.

John knew better than to fall for those wide puppy dog eyes. "Out! Out!" He reached for his gun when Sherlock didn't move. "Just get out!

Sherlock backed up as soon as John's fingers closed around the butt of the pistol. "John, please, just hear me out. Let me explain."

"Explain? Explain!" John was shouting and he knew his neighbours would complain and he'd get another letter from his landlord and he didn't care. "You don't get to explain! You jumped off a building! You died! You do not get to explain!" His fingers trembled on the trigger. He double checked the safety. He wanted to shoot Sherlock, just wanted to be sure it was somewhere painful and lasting. Like the kneecaps.

"John, it's me. I'm alive and I'm sorry for what I put you through, but I can explain everything if you just put down the gun."

"What you put me through?" John kicked the nearest armchair. "What you put ME through?" Sherlock took another step back, into the hallway. Mycroft edged away fro the door, hands out from his sides. "You made me bury you! I held your bloody funeral!"

"John, I did it to protect you. Moriarty had snipers. Unless I died, you would." Sherlock's voice was calm, like he wasn't being threatened at gunpoint by a hysterical crack shot. "Don't you understand? I had to fake my death, or I'd be holding your funeral."

"We couldn't have talked about it first?" John was livid. Protect him? Sherlock had done all this to protect him? "Moriarty was dead! Shot himself! Unless you were so concerned about your ego that you failed to observe that!" It was a low blow, and John knew it.

Sherlock's face lost all colour. "John, I..."

"Just leave. Get out." He fell into the armchair. Well, onto the armrest of said armchair. He'd misjudged his position. "Just need to be on my own. Again." He closed his eyes, listening to the scuffle of shoes on the floor and Mycroft's soft voice.

"Give him time, Sherlock. He took it hard." John didn't catch Sherlock's rapid reply. Mycroft was closer, and speaking louder. "He's only human...you broke his heart... You made him watch, Sherlock! I've listened to the tapes... Of course I had them bugged!...How did you expect this to happen? It's been two years and you just thought he'd welcome you back into his life? After what you did, I've though about killing you myself."

There was a long pause, and then Mycroft's voice again. "I'm here for John, because you weren't." John didn't know what that meant. Why was Mycroft here for him?

Then there was the sound of large soled shoes on the stairs and finally silence. He took several heavy breathes before he even thought about opening his eyes.

Soft fingers brushed against his hand the hand holding the gun. He snapped to attention, eyes flying open, legs bunching to jump out of the chair.

Sherlock's eyes were warm in his ever pale face. "Put down the gun, John." His voice was low, quiet, pleading even. John didn't want to, he wanted to make Sherlock pay for all he had done, but Sherlock managed to gently pull the pistol out of his grip, staring into John's face with his eyes wide the entire time. Once he had the gun free of John's fingers, he threw it away, sending it skidding across the floor. "Hear me out, please."

John was glaring daggers at the detective but he kept his mouth shut.

"I was wrong. I should have told you the truth. I should have trusted you." Sherlock was balanced on his toes, legs folded underneath him but not touching the ground. Just like he would kneel in front of a body. "I have no excuse for that. It was wrong, not to talk it over with you, and I can only pray for your forgiveness."

John nodded. He still couldn't bring himself to speak, not anymore, not while his former flatmate and formerly dead best friend was sitting so close to him. So close and so very much alive.

Sherlock seemed to accept the nod as John's acceptance of his apology. "As to why I couldn't simply walk off that roof, it comes back to around to Moriarty. I had no way of knowing if you were already in a sniper's sights. He had everything planned so perfectly." Sherlock shook his head. For another man, it would have been a sign of regret over his lack of choices. John knew that for Sherlock, it was regret that Moriarty was gone and he would no longer be around to challenge Sherlock. "There was no way I could walk off that roof without placing you in extreme danger."

"Stop this." John cut Sherlock off just as he was about to start a new sentence.

"Stop what?" Sherlock's face was so close to him, so near.

"Stop talking. Stop trying to explain what you did." John managed, somehow, to get to his feet and walk around to the other side of the chair without touching Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, stayed was he was, rocking slightly. "Stop telling me that you did it to protect me, because that was two years ago and you haven't said anything to me since then." His voice had lost it's angry edge. He was strangely calm, even though a part of him wanted to be yelling again. "You disappeared, Sherlock. Not a single word, not a visit, not even a hint that you were still alive. Nothing."

"I didn't leave completely." Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I visited. You and Mrs. Hudson. Just to make sure you were alright. Let you see me, if only out of the corner of your eye."

"You...visited?"

"Yes. I came very close to telling you the truth. Stood in one place for too long. I was sure that you knew it was me."

"When...?" All the times he'd thought he'd seen Sherlock in the crowd, all the glimpses of him out of the corner of his eyes.

"When you visited for the letter that Mrs. Hudson had found. I stood across the street and waited for you to come out. I watched you and you saw me watching. You saw me. I hadn't meant for that to happen, not then."

"You...you...you..." John sputtered. "You..."

Sherlock smirked. "You're drooling, John." He took the armchair John had left, sitting just as he used to in their Baker street flat.

He shut his mouth. "I was so alone. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?" He was getting mad again, voice rising in volume.

"John, I had to do it. It was the only way."

"You offed yourself to save me."

"In a certain way of phrasing it, I did. I was also acting to ruin Moriarty's last act against. I bested him. He died, but I didn't. I lived and you lived and Mrs. Hudson lived and Lestrade lived. Moriarty failed to consider the fact that I would fake my death. If everyone believed I was dead, then he'd call the snipers off. I had the time and freedom necessary to track down the remains of his web." Sherlock was, there was no other word for it, beaming with pride. "Consulting detective beats the consulting criminal."

"God, Sherlock, were you this stuck up when you were off doing whatever the bloody hell you were doing?"

"I traveled the globe and hunted down all of Moriarty's associates."

"Jesus!" John smacked his own forehead. That actually hurt.

"Is there a problem?"

"I just don't want the world believing that you're..." John didn't know how to phrase what he was feeling.

"That I am what?"

"Such an annoying dick all the time." Sherlock just lifted his eyebrows. John had had enough. He stomped over to the door of the flat, through it open, and pointed at the hallway. "Leave, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock did, without saying another word.


	3. The Challenge

He had seen Sherlock Holmes on final time before he'd shipped out.

"I can't take this anymore, Sherlock. I can't and I won't."

Sherlock was sitting across the lab table from him. "What's wrong this?"

"You promised!" John pointed his finger angrily at the other man. "You promised me, Sherlock! No more of this!"

"Which part of this has gotten you so mad now? The fact that I caught a murderer or that I had a smoke while I was doing so or that you're planning on traveling aboard now that I'm back at Baker street?" Sherlock flicked the butt of cigarette into the garbage can.

"You...swore..." John pursed his lips and took a deep breath. "That...you...wouldn't...smoke. Cold turkey, remember?"

"I seem to recall something along those lines, yes."

"Then why the hell did you just have a smoke?" His voice echoed loudly in the small room.

Sherlock put his face back to the microscope. "I needed one. For the case."

"For the case?"

"Yes."

John decided that, rather then tell Sherlock about his new deployment, he'd yell at him about the smoke. "And just how does a smoke help you solve a case?"

"His fingers had fresh tar stains on them, but there wasn't any ash on his jacket. Just had a smoke, but didn't want it to show. He would have walked somewhere else, to have it. Men like that always do. Don't think about the smell. Bit stupid really." Sherlock rapidly fired off. "Amount of stains suggested one smoke, not two. He was gone from his house for twenty minutes. Two places to catch a smoke within that walking time, not a smoker friendly neighborhood. We know the killer was at the same place, waiting. Now, did Mr. Beksworth finish his cigarette before he saw the killer, or after?"

"I don't know."

"Neither did I." Sherlock tossed a slide into the air and caught it with his other hand. "Time was everything. That's why I had the smoke." He smiled expectantly at John.

John glared back at him. "Sherlock, that was inexcusable."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, why don't you just tell me why you came in here to the labs in the first place. You didn't know I'd had a smoke until you walked in, so why are you here?" He looked John over again. "Traveling plans I guess, that you want to share. You can't put up with my return from the grave, and so you're leaving me. I didn't actually die. Just a magic trick."

"Of bloody well course!"

"Ah. You think I should care more about what the pain of thinking I was dead did to you."

"Yes. And Mrs. Hudson, who nearly had a heart attack when she heard."

"John, I don't care and I never have. This is what I said before John, I meant it. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

John would have said that you could cut the silence in the room with a knife, but that would be impossible. You'd need something stronger, like a diamond or C4.

Sherlock broke the silence first. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock returned his gaze to his microscope. "Afghanistan or Iraq? You're back in military service, that's why you're traveling aboard soon. Your hand tremor and limp have gotten worse. Returning to somewhere extremely stressful to you. Stressful place, military service, traveling aboard again. You're returning to an active post in the same area as you were originally wounded. I can't remember where you originally served, hence the question. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"You don't remember where I served?" It was a shock to John that he didn't, though knowing Sherlock it shouldn't have been.

"Details aren't important." Coming from anyone else, the sound he made next would have been a laugh cut off by choking.

"Right."

Storming out of St. Bart's had been the last time he'd seen Sherlock before he'd shipped out. And frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to if he had had the chance.


End file.
